


no grave can hold my body down

by stormysaturdays



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormysaturdays/pseuds/stormysaturdays
Summary: Geralt's not here to save him this time.(a remix(?)/inspired by 'I'll crawl home to you' by pasdecoeur)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 905





	no grave can hold my body down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasdecoeur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/gifts).
  * Inspired by [i'll crawl home to you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260970) by [pasdecoeur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/pseuds/pasdecoeur). 



> okay okay so. the thing is. i wanted to write about how Geralt in pasdecoeur's fic might've felt seeing Jaskier 'die', when he already had to watch one almost-friend(?) die in Renfri, and i MEANT TO, see, but much like the cat in my old neighbourhood, Jaskier had somehow butted his way in(to my head) and then refused to leave, so I wrote this on my phone instead.
> 
> title is by hozier because OF COURSE IT IS, IT FITS and also fits the inspiring fic's title (also hozier seems like the kind of artist a modern au jaskier would love)

Jaskier hadn't _meant_ to end up in the princess' bed before her wedding, honest.

Really, he hadn't!

But he'd been thinking of Geralt (again) and wallowing in his heartbreak does him no good the night before a performance, and the princess had been so very sweet and _so_ sympathetic to his plight, and she'd offered to get his mind off of ' _whoever it is that has you so torn up_ '. How was he supposed to turn her down?

He _definitely_ didn't mean to get caught in the princess' bed the morning before the wedding, though.

But he did, and the princess' father had certainly not been pleased. Which, considering he was hired to sing at the no-longer-virginal (but still very lovely!) princess' _wedding_ , and _not_ to make _her_ sing in her bed, is fair enough.

Sentencing him to death had _really_ been quite unnecessary, though, in his opinion.

* * *

They sentenced him to death by hanging in ten days time, and left him, in uncomfortable and frankly _hideous_ rags, in the prison cell. Didn't even let him keep his lute with him. What was he supposed to do to entertain himself for ten days before they leave his body to hang in the wind?

Think of a way to escape death, of course.

Jaskier is a _bard_ , godsdamn it, a bard who'd followed the White Wolf halfway across the Continent for a decade and _lived_ to tell tales (or rather, sing) about it! A death by hanging is no way for a bard who'd survived traveling years with a witcher to die. Even if he hadn't seen neither hair nor hide of said witcher in what felt like years now. (It hadn't been _years_ , really- more like one year and three months, two weeks, five days. But who's counting?)

So he spends the first three days thinking of an escape plan, and singing loud enough that the guards would come and rattle the prison bars, yelling at him to _shut the fuck up_. A few times, he'd had to stop himself from staring at a crack on the dungeon wall and thinking about Geralt, and how he'll probably never know that Jaskier's dead if he fails to escape here.

Not that he thinks Geralt would _care_ about his death even if he hears about it later, judging by the last words he'd spat out before Jaskier had up and left the mountain (left Geralt, for what felt like the last time) to not-cry into his ale at the tavern in the nearest village. In fact, Geralt might even do that satisfied little twitch of lips at the news of Jaskier's death, the closest thing Jaskier's seen to a smile when he's not around that lilac-eyed witch's presence.

  
  


* * *

  
Jaskier knows, alright. He knows Geralt won't come to save him this time, not after-

_"If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!"_

So. Well. Maybe this was Destiny's way of giving Geralt that blessing he'd so wanted.

But Jaskier's done a fantastic job of granting him that blessing this past year, three months, three weeks and one day himself without having to die, hadn't he?

  
  


* * *

  
On the fourth day and two inches into digging through the crack on the cell wall, Jaskier comes to the realization that even if he _does_ manage to escape from the prison, they wouldn't stop looking for him until he's caught again. And when they do, they would more likely lop his head off then and there instead of letting him fester in another cell before a public hanging. There's no one to protect him on the run but himself, and the king's men likely won't stop until he's dead.

... Or until they _think_ he's dead.

But how does one not die from a noose slipped around one's neck?

  
  


* * *

  
On the ninth day, Jaskier finds a solution. Or at least he _hopes_ he does. If it succeeds, all he has to do is look convincingly dead long enough for his body to be taken down from the noose and tossed into wherever it is they toss bodies.

Hopefully not anywhere corpse-eaters would be. 

(He hasn't really thought much past 'wait until they take my hopefully-still-living body down from the noose and hope for the best'.)

But if the tube slips too far down his throat and chokes him instead, or if the rope dislodged the tube anyway, if the plan doesn't succeed... 

Well.

He tries not to think about it too hard.

  
  


* * *

  
On the day of his hanging, they put a hood that smells of either death or old cabbages over his head three hours before noon and march him onto a wooden platform, the cacophony of a jeering and yelling crowd of strangers ringing in his ears. The priest's voice is almost drowned out in the din, droning out the lines of the final rites (for his death, oh _gods_ , _please_ let this work, he has songs to write, a confession to make, a witcher to find and yell out his love to one more time, _he can't die here_ ).

The metal tube he'd nicked from his neighbouring cell and shoved down his throat an hour earlier itches something fierce. Jaskier barely manages not to cough it out, half-singing _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ in a near-whisper as the hood is lifted off his head and the noose is slipped around his neck- the executioner, if he hears him, has the good grace to say nothing of it.

If his plan fails after all, he'd much rather spend his last few minutes thinking and singing of Geralt.

All too soon, there is the faint snap of a closed book, and Jaskier closes his eyes.

He thinks of molten gold glares over campfires, of silver and iron swords. He thinks of Geralt's last words to him. He thinks of Roach, of carrot bits he snuck out for her at the inn stables whenever Geralt wasn't looking.

He thinks, _oh, Melitele preserve me, I_ really _hope this works._

The platform underneath his feet falls open and the world flashes up and black, and just for a second, he'd swear he heard Geralt screaming his name. But that's _absurd_ , Geralt isn't-

The noose pulls his neck up and gravity pulls his body down and his breath is pulled out, _out_ of him, and then Jaskier is thinking of nothing at all.

* * *

  
The first of Jaskier's senses to come back is his hearing, in bits and pieces.

_“Jask—" "-please—" "—I miss you— I didn’t mean to— I didn’t mean to need anyone, and then you came, and you were—”_

His sense of touch is second.

_“—when love isn’t something you think you’re capable of, you… forget to anticipate it. You forget to guard yourself against it.”_

There's a faint touch on his hand before someone is holding it, skin burning against his own. The sun feels warm on parts of his skin and the fucking tube is _still_ making his throat itch, so he coughs to alleviate it, and finally opens his eyes-

-only to see Geralt, his golden eyes blown open wide and red-rimmed, mouth hanging open slightly.

Huh. So Geralt _can_ look shocked, after all.

* * *

  
_"You came for me."_

_"Of course. Always."_

_"... Don't break my heart again, okay?"_

_"Okay."_

* * *

(Much, _much_ later, Jaskier will hear from neighbouring towns how the White Wolf had ridden into the middle of Tiora, wild-eyed and screaming for the bard that was sent to hang. He'll hear what were probably exaggerated tales of how the witcher had then disappeared from Tiora's gates, grief lining his features like scars, a limp body cradled to his chest with one arm.

Maybe he'll even hear how it really went from Geralt himself.

But that will come much, _much_ later. For now there is only Geralt, and him, and Roach.

And that's exactly how Jaskier wants it.)

**Author's Note:**

> aite im done im never writing prose fics again this shit's HARD
> 
> (the dialogue in italics between geralt and jaskier at the end, and geralt's words as jas came around, are directly from pasdecoeur's fic. go read it if you haven't already!!)


End file.
